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Fire-Light Reflections 



BY 



JAMES BRADSHAW BEVERLEY. 



" MEADOW VILLE" 
Fei!Ruary, 1905. 



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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1905, by 

JAMES BRADSHAW BEVERLEY, 
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 









TO 

OUR GREAT PRESIDENT, THEODORE ROOSEVELT, 

THE FOREMOST OF ALL RULERS IN THE 

ADVOCACY OF UNIVERSAL ARBITRATION, 

THIS LITTLE POEM IS DEDICATED BY 

A SOUTHERN DEMOCRAT. 



I love to sit by the open fire 

When the night comes in, ere the lamps are lit, 

Its ghostly shadows stalk behind 

Except where the flame-beams dance and flit. 

The wind without blows cold and loud. 

But this only adds to the peace within. 

And I think of the comforts that man has wrought 

In spite of the Curse of Sin. 

My dear little wife sits across the hearth — 

I silentl^?^ ponder, she wants to talk, 

Like the crackling fire her thoughts leap in words 

While mine like the ghost-shades stalk ; 

And as the shadows close again 

When cleft by the fire-flashed sparks. 

So my serious vein returns on me 

After each of her light remarks. 

The work that man has done — his brain 
Turning crude Nature's laws about. 
Extracting Facts from heaps of Doubt, 
By patient care, by toil and pain. 
Changing all to his needs or gain — 
My wife here flashes out 



"I saw old Liza Shorts out at The Plains to-day, 

I wonder how long it's been since she last went away ?" 

Said I, "I thought (I thought not, merely said) 

That that old negro had for years been dead." 

"Dead ! Spry, and just as gaudily bedecked 

As when, a child, I first can recollect 

Her cooking for the Washingtons" — Again 

My thoughts resume their graver train. 

The sticks of stubborn oak before my eyes 

Into gray ashes fall, or blue-gray smoke arise ; 

A shovelful of mineral ash 

The visible remains 

Of Nature's work for many years 

With patient toil and pains. 

Doubtless four centuries ago 

Its acorn germ began to grow. 

Sent down its first deploying root. 

Shot up its tender light green shoot 

Through covering trash ; 

And year after year sucked the roots beneath, 

While above each summer its green lungs breathed. 

Below from the beds of chromes and slates 

It lifted the potash and silicates. 

Its stones but microscopic grains. 

Which it floated up through tiny veins, 

Its foliage green. 

Cements with carbonous hydrates. 

Drunk from the air that circulates 



Its leaves between. 

Molecules of heat are stored away, 

Drawn from the sun. 'Till day by day, 

And cell on cell. 
The horny trunk and limbs are made, 
Throwing their canopy of shade 

Across the dell. 

Its pinnacle first lighted by the sun 
Signals the valley morning has begun ; 
At sunset, lit by the last crimson ray, 
Wig-wags the world the end of each short day. 
Imagination takes us back through years 
And many a long-gone episode appears — 
The fierce bald-eagle seeks this airy perch 
From whence to make his deadly downward lurch 

Upon the mountain kid. 
The she-wolf's young snarl from the glade 
At that long hump of tawny shade. 
Where only partly hid, 
The panther's hungry fangs await 
The coming of the roebuck's mate. 
Oftimes, no doubt, beneath this giant oak, 
The Chiefs of many an Indian tribe 
Have met, the pipe of peace to smoke. 
Their treaties make, their rights and bounds prescribe. 

Here in the ground 
The feathered Sachem plants his upright lance. 



As signal to his braves the weird war-dance 

Must circle 'round. 
In horrid paint and plumes they form their circle here, 
Each brandishing a bow, a tomahawk, a spear, 
A knotted club, or scalping knife to show 
In pantomime how he has slain a foe. 
Now creeping, each in turn his weapon slants, 
Now each in turn his deeds of valor vaunts. 
And now in unison they croon their doleful chants. 
At last, as victors all, they wildly yell and prance. 

Gone long ago this pantomimic show. 

Gone the wild red man with his spear and bow. 

And now has gone this oak that saw them go. 

Two days ago I heard its crashing fall awake 

The echoes in each sleeping glen and glade. 

And knew what Nature took four centuries to make, 

Man had in one short active hour unmade. 

So on this changing sphere each day is lost in night. 
Each Summer's blooms appear to fade with winter's blight. 
Even on Birth Death marks his claim,. and all that grows must fall, 
The bells and sexton are the same for wedding or for pall. 

The laAvs of gravitation use each rain 
To move tiie mighty mountains grain by grain, 
And with them fill the hollows of the plain. 
By Nature — greatest of all engineers — 
Working unceasing through the endless years. 
The valley fills, the mountain disappears. 



Where now o'er fifty fathoms speeds the flying ship, 
By some great seisinic subterranean slip, 
A momitain from the ocean waves will rise — 
The sea's foundation rocks shot to the skies — 
He shakes the sea-brine from his coral hair 
This new born Titan, and with stony stare 

Looks o'er the wave. 

His mouth and chin 

Form in a grin 

As he reflects 
How many ships upon his sides 

Will break to wrecks, 
How many sailors 'neath his tides 

Will find their grave. 

Nor end the changes here, as day must follow night, 
Known islands disappear and new ones come in sight. 
So too wax and wane the moons, ebbs and flows the tide, 
So the trade-winds, the monsoons, come but can't abide. 
Why must all things vary so, seasons follow seasons, 
Generations come and go — what are nature's reasons ? 

Man himself, from nothing springing. 

At his coming nothing bringing, 
Spends his fleeting hour in making. 

Goes, but nothing with him taking. 

And, too, the lives of nations differ from 

The life of one man only in the length 

Of time they live. From nothing both must come. 



By growth and work attain their wealth and strength. 
And some there are of men and nations both 
Who fated seem to fall before their prime ; 
And some, of stronger or of healthier growth. 
Hold Life and Strength beyond the average time. 

Both bear the Curse of Sin and must 
Spend all their lives in Toil and fierce contending, 

Constructing from creative dust. 

Preserving from the moth and rust, 
To their own needs the powers of Nature bending. 

Either stopping thieves or thieving ; 

Either crushing or relieving. 

Throughout the story of the human race 

This inconsistent difference is made 

Between the man and nation. 
If I should want my weaker neighbor's place, 
And while he on his knees for mercy prayed, 
I slew and robbed him — without other cause^ 
The penalty of death must then be paid 
With my own life, according to the laws 

Of man since the creation. 
Death to the man who kills his weaker brother. 
But glory when one nation kills another ! 
And History condensed to brief narration 

Is international assassination. 

The Hebrews under General Joshua Nun 

Slew Jericho and Ai — at Ajalon, 

In order that the deed might be completely done, 



We read the Lord of Hosts held up the sinking sun. 
And what is there in Chronicles and Kings 
Besides a record of their murderings. 

Long promised, long prophesied, long sought, to the World 

came God's own Son, 
He came not exactly as he ought, nor did as he should have 

done ; 
He ought to have been the earthly son of the High Priest of 

the Jews, 
And Herod, the Tetrarch, should have been won with 

cringing interviews. 
(Alas for him who fails to placate the biased Powers that Be ! 
The Narrow-brained Church, the venal State, the Priest and 

the Sadducee) 
So they dogged Him around some thirty years. 
With shrewd editorial lies and jeers, 
'Till they taught the people He came to save 
To think Him a cross between crank and knave. 
— Blame not those Jews too soon, I pray, 
We do the very same thing to-day, 
In a more prolonged and cruel way 
Than nailing Him to a tree. 

Adown through the darkened ages flung like the beam from 
a lonely star, 
Up through the Dust of Oblivion sprung as an oak spreads 
its limbs afar ; 

Out o'er the pitiless Earth-storms rung as the Bernardine guide- 
bells are, 



LofC. 



As sweet as the songs by seraphs sung to a heavenly tuned 

guitar, 
His divine Words have lived and His Truths have spread 
With strength to the Living and hope for the Dead — 
Like a web 'round the spinning Earth they've clung yet strong 

as an iron bar — 
'Till to every people they're taught and read 
From icy Spitzbergen's frosted tongue, or the peasants on 

crystal Aar, 
Down to where the malarial mists are hung o'er the slaves of 

Zanzibar, 

But oh the Pity of it ! Oh the shame ! 

The inconsistent criminal neglect ! 

Though millions now His Words and Faith proclaim, 

So few the Great Announcement recollect. 

Throughout the world we celebrate His birth, 

But where or when, 

Oh Christian men ! 

A¥as "Peace on Earth?" 
Man's cruelty to man still horrifies mankind. 
And Justice seems to be as deaf as she is blind. 

Now while the church-bells' glad tintabulation 

Floats o'er the land of every Christian Nation 

In honor of Christ's birth commemoration — 

A holiday, a feast, a celebration — 

While "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" is swelling 

From many a crowded church, or lonely dwelling ; 

While "Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men" is ringing 



13 

And "Tidings of Great Joy to Man we're Bringing" — 

What are those sounds in cold Manchuria's regions, 

Those long entrenchments and those serried legions ? 

While the cooing of the Dove of Peace floats from each 

Christian home, 
There red-eyed Battle snaps his teeth and snarls through bloody 

foam. 
The torn-up earth, the blood-soaked soil show gashes of his 

fang 
From where the cold unburied dead 
Around Port Arthur's slopes are spread, 
To where the Shake's waves run red past smoking Liaoyang. 

Nor does the Winter's temperature below 

The zero point, its blizzards or its snow 

Arrest the fearful carnage. There upon 

The narrow winding banks of frozen Hun, 

The raging men and raging skies compete. 

The burning shrapnel with the freezing sleet — 

And death in both, for, horror worst of all, 

The ice-winds freeze the wounded while they crawl. 

From grim Port Arthur, where this war begun. 
About two hundred miles to where upon 
The scarce dividing banks of little Hun 
The dead-locked armies answer gun for gun, 
In one short year o'er this short space were spread 
Two hundred thousand Jap and Russian dead. 
Upon the near-by coast, destroyed by shell or mine, 
Full fifty ships of war lie underneath the brine. 



14 

In vain the white -winged Dove 
Flies o'er the crimson flood, 
Nor finds a lasting perch 
Unstained by human blood ! 
Alas the Herald angels sadly moan 
To hear, at Christmas tide, the Christian Czar 

In Jesus' name hark on his dogs of war ! 
And see a Christian Priest, with blest ikon. 
Leading the blood begrimed warriors on ! 
Back on the winds they must have flown, 
Fast and afar. 
To worlds unknown. 
Some soft-rayed star. 
That never is by battle torn. 

Nor feels artillery's jar, 
Nor hears sweet woman's woeful groan, 
When war has left her all alone. 
Of husband, sons and brothers shorn ; 
Where martial cloaks are never worn 

And conflicts never mar ; 
Where Truth is taught and Justice strewn, 
Where Universal Peace is sown. 
And Love and Mercy are. 



The Aryan race 
Cradled — modern ethnologists suppose — 
Somewhere 'mid central Asia's mountain snows 



IS 

'Tis thought some several thousand years ago 
Began their borders first to overflow, 
The Western w^aste 
Their destination. 
Resistless, merciless, devouring. 
Tribes and nations overpowering, 
They never ceased their bloody swath to mow, 
Until the broad Atlantic's tidal flow 
Checked for a space 
Their great migration. 

Here for centuries its waters 
Circumscribed their western borders. 
And its roaring seemed as orders 
Not to risk too far its waves, 
'Till at length a man of daring — 
Naught for storm and dangers caring — 
Boldly several ships preparing 
All the unknown terrors braves. 

Where is found a mortal story, 
Modern or with ages hoary. 
That can emulate in glory 
Brave Columbus and his band ? 
Not through all the written pages, 
Not through all the crumbling ages, 
Deeds of warriors or of sages 
Quite so simple, near so grand ! 

Greater good to man has never 
Come from any man's endeavor ; 



i6 



Good which lives and grows forever. 
Blessing all the human race. 
Of all wisdom make one saying, 
Of all fighting make one slaying, 
To one's credit all arraying. 
Still he takes the second place. 

Sweeping flockwise o'er the water 
Like white clouds the Aryans crowd ; 
To the Red Man sword and slaughter. 
Scarce a breathing halt allowed ; 
Quarter is not asked nor given — 
Like red dust their tribes are driven 
Westward by the white storm-cloud. . 

Forests fall before their axes, 
Cities rise beneath their skill. 
And this Aryan people waxes 
Strong and numerous, until. 
Such their growth has been the fact is. 
Having leaped Pacific's ocean, 
Having swept around the earth. 
They will end their westward motion 
In the land that gave them birth. 

Yet what was the compensation 
To Columbus? What oblation 
For this new-found-world donation ? 
Was it wealth and lordly station ? 
Greatest shame for s;reatest deed ! 



17 

Empty short-lived acclamation, 
Then a brief incarceration, 
Left when aged to privation, 
Dying actually in need. 

Even to this generation. 
Nowhere has a race or nation 
Builded fit commemoration 
To the man who found this land. 
The United States now towers 
Far above all Western PoAvers, 
Plainly then the duty's ours, 
Plainly is the time at hand. 

When Culebra's rocks are riven. 
When the salt waves of the seas 
'Tween his feet are rushed and driveii 
Rising to his flinty knees. 
By our special invitations 
All the navies of the world 
Shall draw up in line by nations, 
All their thousand flags unfurled. 

In the lead the Eagle soaring, 
Loud the World's artillery roaring, 
All the thousands madly cheering 
At such feat of engineering : 
Onward througli they march ! 
Forward look ! the sky-line scanning — 
See ! the wide canal-way spanning, 



Lifting well its crown to heaven 
Where the mountain ridge is riven, 
Far above the top-masts vaulting, 
Massive, beautiful, exalting, 
The Columbian Arch ! 

Greatest Architect should plan it. 
Fast its feet be sunk in granite. 
And of marble make the keystone. 
Colon's bust upon the east-stone — 
Facing the Pacific shore 
Carve the image of Balboa. 

Then must follow the unveiling 
Of two groups on topmost railing 
Where the Archway centres. 
In each group two heroes standing, • 
Each way the Canal commanding : 
They this channel's Mentors. 

Washington, imposing, splendid. 

Firmly grasps the hand extended 

Of great Bolivar, the hero 

Who expelled the Spanish Nero 

From his native land. 

Of the new world these the Castor 

And the Pollux. Alabaster 

Patriots they, on whom Disaster 

Only fixed Resolve the faster. 

Fought 'gainst sword and Indian arson, 



19 

Spanish priest and English parson, 
Britain's pound and Spain's piastre, 
Over all each proved a master 
— Monarchy-expelling master — 
Empire-builders — empires vaster 
Than the builders planned. 

On the western rail another 
Pair of chieftains face each other, 
— The east group almost repeating — 
Roosevelt is Amador greeting. 
These the men whose quick decision 
In their purpose, and precision 
In their actions, saved these waters 
From the crimson stain of slaughters ; 
From the blood of nations blended. 
From a strife which might have ended 
In these continents hereafter 
Being hostile. Ah we have to. 
And we love to give them glory. 
And we love to tell the story. 
Tell it here to all the nations, 
Carve, so future generations 
Here may read 'till History ends 
That this Arch is built to tether 
These two Continents together. 
But as brother clasping brother. 
By these waters flowing under. 
By these mountains cleft asunder, 
By this Archway vaulting o'er. 



20 



By Columbus and Balboa, 

By these ships beneath us sailing, 

By these heroes on the railing. 

By that fluttering snow-white banner 

— To the Prince of Peace, Hosanna !- 

While this Archway holds together, 

While these oceans kiss each other. 

Pan- Americans are friends. 



Ah ! my back log's fall'n to embers, 
And my little wife remembers 
Liza Shorts in childhood-dreams. 
It is time I too were sleeping, 
For, the flames no longer leaping, 
The ghost-shades are closer creeping ; 
Through my window — after peeping — 
Shyly come the cold moon's beams : 
Doubtless they would be advising 
One o'clock's their hour of rising, 
Such late hour is not in keeping 
With a farmer who must rise 
Ere the daybreak tints the skies. 



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